


If You Should Fall

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Series: Serious Moonlight [3]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gore, M/M, Pre-Series, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kevin's not sure why they won't let him use that gorgeous microphone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Should Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving old fic from 2013 - I actually haven't listened since ep 33, from the looks of things, so everything I post will likely be terribly non-canon-compliant. No comment spoilers, please--I do intend to get caught up!
> 
> Takes place concurrent with the beginning of "Truths".

"And here's the recording booth," said the hiring director's assistant, a smartly-dressed man in his late thirties with the bitter air of someone who'd worn a lean and hungry look, _once._ "The equipment's brand new; the company tore out all that archaic junk the station was using when we bought the place, even put in a new transmitter. I wouldn't be surprised if you could reach Night Vale if you turned on all the juice--but don't try," the assistant warned, turning to fix Kevin with a stern look as Kevin followed him into the booth. "In fact, you can leave most of the day-to-day workings to the techs; all you need to do is read whatever's put in front of you."

"Sounds easy enough," Kevin said with a smile, shoving his hands in his pockets. The look he got in return was oddly flat, narrow-eyed and unenthusiastic. Really, the man didn't smile nearly enough. It was no wonder he was still an assistant at his age. "When do I start?"

"Sit," he was told, waved toward a chair. He had to squeeze past the hovering assistant, and he was tempted to give the man a reassuring clap on the shoulder; he did know his way around a studio, after all. Then again, with a conscientious fellow like this, probably only a demonstration would set him at ease.

Reaching for the headphones hung up over the soundboard, he settled them over his ears but left the mouthpiece turned off and tipped up out of his way. The big ceiling-mounted microphone, a many-jointed behemoth that gleamed as if installed that morning, would give him much better sound quality.

He'd barely begun his reach to adjust the angle of the mic and pull it closer when the director's assistant knocked his hand away.

" _Don't_ touch that," the man warned, smiling tightly at Kevin's uncertain look. "Don't _ever_ touch that. Understand? That thing isn't for radio use. Use the pickup on your headset; it's perfectly adequate. Consider it part of your contract."

Well. He certainly wouldn't want to mess with _that._ Still, he couldn't help being curious. The microphone was such a lovely piece of equipment, truly state of the art--but then, he could think of other things a state of the art microphone could be used for that had nothing to do with broadcast journalism. Was that it? Was it meant to listen only?

He grinned. How _like_ a company as professional as StrexCorp to have thought of everything, even going so far as to preserve the aesthetics of their tiny little station. Really, he couldn't imagine why anyone had ever complained about the interest they took in the town. Wait. _Had_ anyone ever complained? Certainly no one _he_ could name. Clearly he should have more faith in his fellow citizens.

There were a few papers waiting for him on a dry patch of desk by the computer, and he flipped through them one-handed, the heel of his palm weighing down the stack. The fingertips of his left hand he slid over ropes of gleaming viscera that lit beautifully from within at the slightest touch. They certainly had spared no expense.

Tipping the mouthpiece of his headset down, he spared a last, regretful look at the off-limits microphone and took himself live on-air.

"Hello, Desert Bluffs," he said, his sheer delight at being there bubbling over in his voice. "This is Kevin, here to bring you _all_ the news you could ever possibly want."

The assistant gave him a dubious look for that, but really, Kevin was a professional. They'd see. A week with him at the mic, and they'd wonder how they ever got along without his cheerful voice to start their days. It was going to be _wonderful._

"First up, it looks like wrecking crews are on the scene to finally tear down the old public library. With its readership crippled by the rise in popularity of the internet and the ease with which one can browse such sterling agencies as Fox News, the abandoned library has become something of an eyesore in recent years, as I'm sure we can all agree. Luckily the fine folks at StrexCorp will be breathing new life into the facility by opening an internet café! Construction should be completed by this fall, and I hope to see you all there at the grand opening."

Very slowly, the assistant hovering over his shoulder began to relax, the clenched fist on the back of Kevin's chair loosening its grip. Honestly, Kevin felt sorry for him; he couldn't recall ever meeting anyone so tense. Should he get the man a seat, perhaps? Surely if he could convince _this_ listener to sit back and take things as they came, interim management would be pleased.

Maybe they'd even install a second microphone, one he could use.

***

_Make it lively,_ interim management had written in their job offer letter, and Kevin had kept that firmly in mind. The previous DJ had frankly been a bit boring, reading the news with the most atrocious pauses and sometimes losing the thread of his stories altogether. He'd just stop, awkwardly shuffle some papers, then go on to the next topic. Had the man never heard of a segue? _Honestly._

The first time a StrexCorp courier swept in, plucked a newssheet out of Kevin's hand and replaced it with fresh copy, Kevin carried on without a hitch, blithely tying together the helpful correction he'd been handed. It made him feel warm inside to know their parent company was so dedicated to accuracy in journalism, and really, 'detention' and 'vacation' were easy words to mishear, especially in a noisy environment.

Three months into his stint as a DJ, the head of PR himself came down to the station to meet him, shaking his hand with a wide, white grin.

"You're doing an excellent job," Carl Steffenberg said, clapping him on the shoulder. The wall was cool and very sturdy at Kevin's back; it was kind of Steffenberg to be so thoughtful. "Really excellent. Not everyone's got the talent for information on the fly, but you're a natural. Keep this up, and I may just have to put you to work myself."

As content as Kevin was exactly where he was, he couldn't help being flattered. Really, what a great guy! And his entourage was so _friendly_ about delivering their congratulations, a few hearty back-slaps and one shy "See you soon."

Though he was done for the day, he sank back into his chair, just to catch his breath after all the excitement. For a moment he let himself dream of endless newsfeeds, the town at his fingertips, his voice in every ear. Not much different than a normal day, when he thought about it.

Smiling, tongue flicking the split in his lower lip, he sank back in a comfortable slouch and pulled the fingers of his right hand out straight again one by one, eyes fixed dreamily on the shining angles of the microphone looming above him. Sometimes he'd swear the thing was watching him, not just listening to him, but he didn't mind. He was a public persona, after all. What did he have to hide?

***

Being met at the station door one evening by some of the boys from StrexCorp's security division was a surprise, but he put on his most charming smile as they gathered around him. "Well, hello, friends. Is there something I can do for you?" Could they be fans of the show? It was just that it was usually the couriers who delivered the news, though come to think of it, he hadn't seen any that day at all. "Is this about the show?"

"You could say that," one of them said with a cheery little grin, taking Kevin by the arm and gesturing towards a long black van. "Can you come with us, please? I'm afraid there's been a meeting called. You know how it is."

"Can...I ask with whom?" Kevin tried, brushing automatically at the hand on his elbow. He would have liked to gently protest the timing--it'd been a long day already--but one simply didn't refuse an invitation from StrexCorp.

The security guard smiled and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Just one of the boys in PR. I think you met him a few months ago."

"Carl Steffenberg?" he hazarded a guess, stumbling a little. Oops; better watch his feet.

"No, no, not quite _that_ far up the chain. Mr. Steffenberg is a busy man, you know; he usually leaves this sort of meeting to his assistant. Up you get--and watch your head."

"Ah--thank you, friend." The guard's smile seemed to be listing to the left and taking the guard with it. Or maybe that was just him.

"Just doing my job, Mr. Free."

Though it was after five, they took him up the back way once they reached the main office, considerate of anyone who might be working late. Not that he _meant_ to be a disturbance, but five were hard to keep entertained, and he did have a reputation to uphold. By the time they reached the seventh floor, he was desperately curious, but when they showed him into a private office and found him a chair, he was more puzzled than enlightened. As it happened, he did recognize the man behind the desk.

"Oh," Kevin said, nonplused. "It's been a while." Funny; it was the same guy who'd made such a point of assuring Kevin he'd see him _soon._

"Yes, well, sorry for the delay," his host said with a disarming smile. "A few things took a bit longer than I'd hoped...but the point is, you're here now. And there's just a few tiny things I'd like to talk with you about, Mr. Free...starting with why you divulged trade secrets on the air this morning."

Kevin blinked. "Trade secrets? There must be some mistake. I read the news exactly as it was handed to me."

"Yes, yes you did. But you neglected to read the correction which was sent, and that would be the problem. It's the sort of mistake your predecessor would have made; not at all what we've come to expect of such a rising star."

Correction? Kevin shook his head. "But...there weren't any corrections. I haven't seen a courier all day."

His host's sigh was disappointed, his frown rebuking. "Mr. Free. Everyone makes mistakes. Compounding them with falsehoods, however, is _not_ acceptable. A courier would have delivered the news to you this morning--"

"It was waiting on my desk when I--" Kevin began shortly--and, well, yes; a touch rudely.

"Thank you," his host said as the guards stepped back into their positions along the wall. Coughing into his shoulder, Kevin flexed his hands and tried to ease the drag on his arms. It was a pity; he'd liked this shirt. "Now, Mr. Free. Let's go over this again. A courier would have delivered the news to you this morning. Correct?"

Kevin took a deep breath. He could be calm. Polite. He would just have to explain things again.

His journalistic integrity called for nothing less.

***

After the meeting, the guards were nice enough to ferry him back to the station where he'd left his car, but it was late--very late--and he just didn't have the energy to thank them properly. All he really wanted at that moment was to stagger home and crawl into bed, and knowing he had to get up in five hours to get ready for the show made his stomach clench with dismay. From where he sat, his car looked impossibly far away, but the door to the station was right there at his back, steady and comforting. It was an easy choice to make.

He didn't bother turning on the lights as he let himself into the station, leaning heavily on one outstretched hand as he limped down the halls. He meant to head for the men's room and the HR-mandated first aid kit, but habit made his feet turn at the studio door instead. He was nearly at his desk before he even noticed. Right. Maybe he'd just rest a moment instead. He was up far past his usual bedtime, after all, and he was just so _tired._

Exhaustion made him stumble, feet dragging against the carpet's slick weave. Jolted forward, his knees buckled unsteadily as his arms flailed out, trying to catch himself on the desk, the soundboard, anything. One hand caught the swing-arm that held his headset and pulled it right out of the plaster; the other hooked in the microphone rigging he'd promised never to touch and--

Clenched.

_Tight._

Staring groggily, his vision swam as he stared at his hand, caught up in...no. Caught _by_ the cold loops of the microphone's segmented metal cord, which had twisted around his wrist and pulled tight. Already his hand was turning red-- _redder_ \--circulation cut off and making his twisted fingers throb worse than before. He should do something about that. All of it.

Instead he stared helplessly as the microphone's foam windscreen burst apart, shredding as the metal underneath opened wide like the tines of a grappling hook, or--mandibles. Or _teeth._ Definitely teeth, he decided as it gave a chirring growl like steel wool being run through a shredder. Teeth, because a voice required a mouth, and this one was coming closer, metal cord spooling out from nowhere as the reconfigured device slithered up his trapped arm. Holding perfectly still, legs trembling with the strain, he went nearly cross-eyed trying to watch its progress as it slid up his neck, over his cheek, its sharp points gaping so close to his staring left eye it tickled his lashes.

Something...touched him. Inside. Inside his _head._

He would have jerked away, but the cord around his wrist clamped tighter as a shallow scratch opened just beneath his eye. There it was again, that touch, and it was--huge, and vast, and his eyes were rolling back, knees giving way, stomach dropping, _falling_ \--

It caught him. Caught him and held him. Held his mind wide open as his vision greyed to nothing, opened his head up for a million snaking limbs with claws like scalpels, scalpels that flayed him open and dug and dug and stretched him wide and caught, he was _caught_ \--

And then it went deeper.

Somewhere impossibly far distant, something hung suspended in a handful of looping metal coils, screaming, but it took place in such a tiny fragment of his consciousness, he couldn't bring himself to care. The sense of a vast presence brooding all around him was only growing, and now he could sense other things: its brimming frustration and fury at being robbed of its due, forced by a compact he could only dimly understand to wait and watch and never to _reach._ It spat blistering imprecations that blackened the door to Station Management's empty office even as it twined around and through him, strangling-tight, threatening to rip him apart at the seams. Caution kept him still, hanging meekly in its grip. In its all-consuming rage, it had nearly forgotten _him_ entirely.

When the door to the sound booth was kicked open, he recognized all five of the men who piled into the tiny room, weapons out, though they didn't remain recognizable for long. With a grating, train-wreck shriek, the creature condensed a fraction more of its vast bulk into finite dimensions and shoved the resulting mass into one familiar plane. Directly over Kevin's head, the ceiling came alive, myriad steel limbs uncoiling into being and plowing into soft meat that didn't have time to scream. The door splintered and spun off its hinges, the walls to either side crumbling as thick tentacles punched through, still curled around whatever trophy they'd snatched: an arm, a hand, the crook of an unpaired jaw. Coils whipped, nailing bone through plaster as the creature scrawled its displeasure across the remaining wall, turning the half-shattered hallway into a mural of jutting limbs and bristling ribs, studded with teeth.

He waited a moment to be sure it was distracted before he let go his notions of body and self, melting into the spaces between its jumbled, mammoth thoughts. If he could find the heart of the thing, maybe they could learn to cooperate. All he had to do was find the right sort of leverage.

It caught him almost instantly, seizing his mind by the scruff like an unruly kitten, but as it gave him a metaphorical, possibly metaphysical shake, beyond its startled impatience he sensed a thread of amusement. The impression he gleaned from it was of small and squirming things newly spawned, stalking their elders for practice.

And then its hundred limbs pulled back into the sound booth, filling the room to bursting and holding him utterly still as it informed him exactly how it encouraged spawnlings to not get caught a second time.

There was no slack in the coils that held him, no way _to_ thrash as the tips of sharp tentacles blossomed into sharper mouths. They shredded his shirt, chewed through his belt and squirmed into the sides of his shoes to push them off his feet. He was so startled in those first few seconds, his embarrassingly futile struggles were mostly automatic.

"Wait," he protested, and then more strongly, _Wait. But--I'm human!_

It rolled a coil up his leg, teeth nipping teasingly at the cloth of his pants without tugging. Yet. He got the distinct feeling it was waiting for him to get to the point.

_But--I don't have--_ Tentacles, steel-plated skin, a hundred mouths with a million razor edges.

Another spike of amusement. A low rumble that might have been a laugh. And what would he do with them if he did?

Well, that was a silly question. _Share._

It faltered, coils stilling even as they pulled fractionally tighter. Though the part of it he could physically see had no eyes, it was in a sense staring at him. Incredulously.

When it unspooled searching tendrils through his psyche, digging for truth, he poked it curiously back. He'd never met former Station Management, but from the stories, he guessed they might be broadly the same. The microphone-thing hissed, grumbled, but grudgingly let it slide, while at the same time muscling his thoughts aside to fill his head with the image of a hundred identical blobs. Anemones? Oh--no, those were cats.

Kevin huffed, affronted. He could tell two tabbies apart, thank you very much. He _liked_ cats. And anyway, a journalist was observant; it was practically in the job description.

He could feel his own curiosity being echoed back to him now, accompanied by the slow glide of a half-dozen limbs over the bared skin of his chest. They were chilly enough to make him shiver, nipples pebbling as his skin sprouted gooseflesh in the air conditioned booth. There was another brief pause, and then he was relaxing all at once with a grateful sigh as the coils all around him heated warmer than blood. They felt delicious against the leftover aches of a long meeting, and he did his best to wriggle deeper into the mass with the miniscule slack it had distractedly allowed.

Slowly the bands around his arms loosened, though the nest of tentacles that held him cradled made no move to retreat. When he pulled his arms gingerly down, he couldn't quite stifle a groan as one shoulder protested more than the other. Interest sharpening, the creature's coils were back on him in a heartbeat, sliding over and insubstantially _through_ the mess of torn ligament and muscle, and now he could sense it remembering his state when he'd first stumbled through the door.

The rage was back, which Kevin found intensely odd. Did they not have meetings where the creature came from?

As coils pressed in on every side, winding jealously over every inch of him, the only thing he could sense from the creature was an endless pulse of: _Mine._

Amused, Kevin tried to reach out to pet the thing back to a better humor, but his fingers had grown too stiff to bend. It worried him when a tentacle mouth opened on his first two digits--he did _need_ those--but instead of the sharp bite he expected, he felt the warm, wet slide of a muscular tongue wrap around his crooked fingers, coaxing them effortlessly straight.

"Hn!" he managed, gasping in surprise alone. That...hadn't been uncomfortable in the slightest, and now that he thought about it--

When he rolled his shoulder, it moved easily, good as new.

The steel mouths were everywhere then. Bruises blossomed in reverse, blood lapped away by slick black tongues that licked over his skin and occasionally through it, emerging shiny from his flesh. Ribs were nudged back into place and knitted seamlessly together, and Kevin groaned as coils worked restlessly against his back, soothing the tension from knotted muscles. _Keep going,_ he invited, sprawled boneless and content in the heart of the creature's tangled limbs.

A tentacle curled over the waistband of his pants, but the tug was uncertain. When it echoed his own thought back to him, the memory had an inquisitive air. _Share?_

Only a little self-conscious, he reached to pop the button on his slacks, pulling down the zip and shoving pants and briefs off his hips to be stripped away by impatient coils. He wasn't sure where the fascination was coming from; he was very small compared to the creature, frustratingly simple and self-contained. Maybe it had a size kink?

The creature laughed. They were opposites at work, it a native of infinities trying to cram itself into a tiny space, Kevin's body a focal point for a consciousness that was expanding, all but unnoticed, to fill all of time and space.

_What?_ Kevin asked, startled, and for an instant he could _see_ \--the town, its people, the dead courier stuffed in the Dumpster behind the station and Steffenberg's assistant turning pale on the phone as the reports kept rolling in. He could see everything, and the next time someone misplaced a memo or forgot to mention a correction, he would know. All of it. There'd be no hiding from him anywhere...if he stayed the way he was. Corporate would probably have him killed if he did.

The creature rumbled. They were welcome to _try._

The coils had turned jealous again, clinging and caressing, but this time he could reach back. Though they looked like industrial cables, he doubted now that they were metal at all; the segmentation was too smooth, more like a snake's scales than interlocking joints, and there was a slight give when he wrapped his hand around one with a curious squeeze. He couldn't even see the ceiling rigging anymore, and he wondered if it had been part of the creature all along. Camouflage, or perhaps his mind saw only what it was prepared to see.

Startled pleasure greeted that thought, and though the creature neither confirmed nor denied, he could tell it approved. For a reward it dragged a dozen mouths slowly up his legs, tongues curling lazily over his skin as it wedged his knees apart. He shivered again, breathing shallowly in anticipation, and groaned aloud when it hesitated once more.

Delicate non-fingers plucked cautiously at the threads of his mind. This was the point at which its previous tithes all retreated to a gibbering ball in the deepest corners of their psyches. Just this once, if he wanted, it could wait while he--

Kevin arched, rolling his hips up into the closed tentacle-tips hovering teasingly over him, pressing his shoulders back into coils that shifted to cradle him more securely. With both hands he reached out to grip whatever he could catch: a smooth face, a long shaft, and he hummed smugly as the former opened wide to lick at his palm. He wanted to feel those tongues around his cock, wanted to slide carefully past the sharp edges of a hungry mouth and bury himself in the impossibly smooth channel of a bottomless throat. He wanted those tongues to open him up, for the creature to finish the job of splitting him open and stuffing him full.

He purred as teeth closed on his throat, firm but gentle. _Mine,_ he sent back experimentally; it had never occurred to him to consider another person in that light before.

Later it struck him that he should perhaps have specified that all the things he wanted would have been just as pleasant if they'd happened consecutively, but simultaneously...simultaneously was fine. Better than fine. Perfect, even.

Next time would be soon enough for taking things slow.

***

"Excuse me," he was hailed as he left the radio station late that afternoon, edging politely through a small army of sweating, trembling contractors armed with hammers and sheets of plywood and the occasional ritual dagger. He sniffed at the last; how old school. _Ugh._ "Excuse me, Mr. Fr--"

He looked up from adjusting the cuffs on his brand new shirt just in time to see Steffenberg's assistant choke and stammer to a halt.

"Free," Kevin supplied with a smile, rocking comfortably back on his heels, "but you can call me Kevin. I feel like we know each other so well."

"Yuh...your...."

He grinned, opening his eyes just the tiniest bit wider so his host of the evening before could get a better look. He was rather taken with the changes himself; not that his eyes hadn't always been dark, unusually so for his complexion, but the black was more striking still.

"I know--charming, isn't it? Well...I do feel a little like a shirt someone's stitched a name into," he admitted with a laugh, "but it's sort of sweet, don't you think? I mean, when's the last time someone stitched their name into you?"

"I--"

"Oh, sorry--where are my manners? You see, it occurs to--wait. Did I catch your name?"

Steffenberg's assistant shook his head slowly, throat clicking through a dry swallow.

Kevin shrugged. "Well, I guess that's not important. It's just that there's something I forgot to mention the first time we saw each other. The thing is, I like radio," he said, slipping his hands into his pockets with an easy smile. "I'm not actually interested in a job with PR. Not that I'm not flattered," he was quick to add, "but I like it right where I am. I guess you could say I feel wanted here."

A tiny squeak was his reply, but he would bet it wasn't every day someone turned down the chance to work directly for Strex instead of their affiliates. Well, it couldn't be helped. Conflict of interest, and all that.

"So you see, while I do appreciate the job coaching, there's no need to worry about grooming me for a position I don't intend to take. And all things considered, I really don't think we're going to require another meeting...do you?"

"N-no. No, I--no. Sir."

"Good." Very good. Excellent, in fact.

Because StrexCorp employees or not, the next time someone tried to pull him into a meeting, it would be on _his_ terms, and he didn't intend to wait for contract renegotiation season to make that very clear. He had more than his own reputation to think of now, and his creature was hard on the infrastructure when its pride was wounded.

He smiled to himself as he watched Steffenberg's assistant recall an urgent appointment elsewhere and sprint for his car.

_His creature._

There'd never been a _his_ before, but now that he had it, he looked forward very much to keeping it.


End file.
